


risky business

by centaur, witchofspaz



Series: bad decisions [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - High School, Drunk Texting, M/M, Masturbation, Phone Sex, Teacher-Student Relationship, Underage Sex, Unrelated Striders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-19
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2019-03-06 18:12:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13416801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/centaur/pseuds/centaur, https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchofspaz/pseuds/witchofspaz
Summary: Drunk texting is a terrible idea. Drunk phone sex with a student is a worse one.





	risky business

**Author's Note:**

> this is two best friends' contribution to Stridercest Week 2018, for day 5's nsfw cyber/phone sex prompt. a fic we've been discussing for ages from one of our trashier aus, in which dirk is an entirely besotted and aggressively interested high school student and dave is his tired art teacher that really wishes he would stop but knows that he wont
> 
> kelsey (witchofspaz) is all of the spoken dave dialogue and beautiful angsting, the editing, the snappy word choices, and the fire in my heart etc  
> laura (centaur) is whatever else is left and dirk, i guess 
> 
> (kidding!! it was very collaborative and we are proud of it)

you up

As soon as he sends those two words, Dave thinks, _This is an awful idea._

It’s easily the worst idea he has ever had. It would be nice if he could blame it on being drunk, because he definitely had about four too many at the post-finals faculty/staff party—but being drunk is no excuse, since he has a whole list of phone contacts to easily sort through if he’s horny and inebriated, smartly and clearly marked with eggplant or peach or tongue and sweat emojis. None of _them_ are over a decade younger than Dave. None of _them_ have been Dave’s student for three years. None of _them_ could destroy his life.

So why the fuck did he text Dirk? The reason he comes up with is hazy, drunk logic—he saw Dirk’s name in his phone and couldn’t stop thinking about the rumors and the gossip and that one afternoon when Dirk walked into his class disheveled and swollen-lipped and perfectly on-time as always. The look that Dirk gave him as he straightened his rumpled tie, challenging and knowing, saying without saying: ‘Well, it could have been you, Dave, but we both know you won’t let me.’ The phone number written in sharpie on bathroom stalls in the men’s rooms across campus, accompanied by lewd scrawling in at least 4 different hands (none of them recognizably Dirk’s)— _d.l. will s ur d on the dl_ , as one ha ha oh so clever example—burning into Dave’s brain as he systematically, furiously scrubbed them off the walls and doors and stalls with rubbing alcohol. 

And yet somehow Dirk’s number ended up in his phone. The worst part is that Dirk would lose his fucking mind if he knew—the three years of toeing the line of Dave’s patience with overly aggressive flirting finally amounted to something. More than something, even: a drunk sext, a crack in Dave’s strictly enforced boundaries between himself and Dirk. It never used to be difficult to maintain the wall keeping out his favorite (that much he was willing to admit) student—and then, last summer, he grew up. He got tall and stupidly ripped, and chilled the fuck out a little. His personality was always infuriatingly endearing; as it aged it became terrifyingly similar to the sort of personality that Dave would seek out at bars for hookups, or even consider for dating. He’s too good at making Dave laugh. They just _fit_ together and it’s easy to relax around Dirk. Too easy. Much too easy. Obviously.

Two little, life-ruining, blue bubbled words. He feels sick and nervous and hopeful. Such an awful idea, but there is no way to take back the text once it’s out there in ones and zeroes. Or whatever texts are. Oh, he could try to pretend that he had the wrong number but—no, dumbass, “you up” is the booty call bat signal. You don’t mistext that to some rando. _Well,_ you _might_ , he thinks, _because apparently you’re a fucking idiot._

The response comes surprisingly fast, preventing further angsting by making his pulse skyrocket.

Always. 

Dave’s palms start sweating. The bubbles appear again a second later, and he’s grateful that he doesn’t have to come up with something further to say. Even drunk off his ass, he doesn’t think he’s capable of outright asking Dirk for… whatever. He really has no idea what he’s after right now, he only knows that his inhibitions are dangerously lowered and he can’t stop thinking about all the rumors he’s heard. Maybe he just wants to talk to Dirk. Nothing inappropriate about that.

It’s pretty late though. Not my normal business hours.  
You get my number from school?  


yeah  
sorry about the time immm kinda drunk  


It’s chill. I wasn’t doing anything important.  
Do I know you, by the way?

no

Momentary panic that, thank god, that no one can see. God bless texting and the inscrutability of a little bubble that only tells Dirk “I swear to fuck I can see into your soul with one piercing glance” Lalonde that he’s typing. He doesn’t need to know that Dave is struggling to figure out what to say next to not sound suspicious.

i mean maybe but im a sophomore and i dont like  
do much

He sounds like a teen, right? Fuck, please let him sound convincingly like a teen.

Except get drunk and text dudes at 2 in the morning?

haha yeah

The rapidity of his pulse is a mildly terrifying ticking in his ears. He feels like he’s about to run a marathon, or maybe like he just ran one.

only dudes with their names scrawled in bathrooms tho  
i have standards  
i was promised a good time by the graffiti artist  
who am i supposed to trust if not some dickhole with a sharpie and terrible aim  
presumably terrible i guess since i wasnt there when the crime was committed  
i just cant believe that a high school dude could piss and write a ten digit number simultaneously without making a huge fucking mess  
and now im praying that it wasnt you that wrote it because ive talked about urination trajectory for like  
three minutes at least  
and im already embarrassed and i might have to cut this conversation short and jump out a window if it turns out im talking specifically about you emptying the radiator

Dirk takes significantly longer to respond to this, and Dave can’t blame him one fucking bit. God, he’s an idiot. 

Don’t worry, I’m not the one advertising. 

(This reassures Dave, not entirely for reasons he is comfortable with.)

Word just gets out naturally when you’re good at sucking dick, I’ve learned.  
And also when you’ve sucked a lot of it in the aforementioned bathroom.

(This sends him spiraling again, a horrible mix of concern and protectiveness and arousal.)

Lots of repressed assholes want to get their dick wet. They think because I also have a cock that I know how to give good head.   
I mean, they aren’t wrong.   
But they know I’m gay so it feels safer to them. 

So what kind of “good time” are you after? I’m obviously not available to meet up at school until next fall.   
But I’m free after 5th period most days. 

Immediately Dave’s brain tells him that he’s free at that time too—then he realizes that it’s the free period that both of them have shared for three years now and will share next year, too. Dirk always spends it with him. Is Dirk really that eager to give that time over to some random student he doesn’t even know? Who also knows nothing about him except for his willingness to give head? 

Who is entirely fictional, he forcefully reminds himself, trying to swallow his jealousy. Who is actually just Dave.

what  
oh  
no no  
idk  
uh i guess i just wanted to talk

Alright. Let’s talk then.

The phone nearly leaps out of Dave’s nervous hands when it starts ringing. _Dirk Lalonde (STUDENT)_ , says the screen, as if giving him one more chance to do the right thing. It’s an opportunity to back out—he could let it ring, since there isn’t anything incriminating on his voicemail message, just the standard robot saying standard things, not his voice, not his name. Answering is much more dangerous. 

His thumb taps the little green circle like it has a mind of its own.

“Hey,” Dave says, clutching the phone to his too-hot face. The screen is cool and soothing, but slightly sweaty from his fingers. His voice is, he hopes, unrecognizably slurred from drunkenness, and convincingly teenaged with how it is cracking and wavering with sick dread over the fact that he is doing something horribly wrong. He thinks he’s probably more nervous than he has ever been, but the alcohol isn’t letting him feel the full extent of anything, except the itch for sex.

There is a pause that feels like forever, time stretched out by fear. Dave wonders if he’s breathing too closely to the speaker, exhaling too loudly. Finally: “Hey.” Dirk’s voice sounds older over the phone, mellow and deep. How many boys call him for blowjobs? How many people does he talk to in the middle of the night like this?

Abruptly Dave realizes he’s been silent for far too long. “Hi,” he says, and immediately cringes.

A snort from the other side of the line, one Dave has heard whenever he cracks shitty dad jokes in class. “I think we’ve covered the exchange of greetings pretty thoroughly now. You still haven’t told me your name though.” He sounds expectant.

“Oh, uh.” Dave takes a moment to reflect that simply withholding his name might be way too obvious, and then to realize that Dirk probably knows the names of the entire student body (because he is Dirk and he has some weird __thing_ _about knowing everything) and then to conclude that assuming the identity of one of his actual students in order to get phone sex is probably almost as morally questionable as having said phone sex with another of his actual students.__

As if Dirk hears Dave’s internal struggle, he makes a little tsking noise, impatient and a little patronizing. “Just give me something to call you while you’re jacking it, dude.” 

“Dave,” he blurts out. A second later, his hand smacks his forehead so hard that it’s probably audible over the phone. Jesus. Hopefully it sounds enough like a fake name he just made up that Dirk won’t make the obvious connection. Because Dave “I Don’t Fuck My Students” Strider, Respectable Art Teacher, would never get hammered and call a student to get off, right? Ha ha.

“Dave,” Dirk repeats and it’s like his eyebrows are audibly rising on his face, Dave is so goddamn sure his cover is blown. “Sawyer? That’s the only sophomore I know named Dave. I thought you went by David usually?”

“Dave is fine,” he says hoarsely.

A beat. “Alright, Dave. You ever done this before?” 

Yes. “No.”

“Shit, no wonder you sound nervous,” Dirk says, while Dave prays there is nothing knowing in his tone. He sounds like he’s got a shit-eating grin on, but that’s how he always sounds—smug, cocky, too smart for his own good. “Don’t worry,” and now his voice is shifting, becoming leading and low and unexpectedly seductive. He’s fucking seventeen and a prep school student, he shouldn’t know how to sound like he’s been taking drags from cigarettes and sipping whiskeys in dark bars, picking up men and fucking them in bathrooms for half his life. (A small voice reminds Dave that he’s been purportedly fucking guys in bathrooms for a least a year though.) “I’ll take good care of you,” he drawls. “Are you wearing pants?” 

“Um. Yes?” 

“Unzip them.”

Ah. Uh. Dave swallows, with some difficulty. “Okay,” he manages lamely. He stares down at his lap, at his zipper. The hand that pulls it down barely feels like his own.

“I did it,” he announces. Like an idiot.

Another snort, but fainter this time, like he at least tried to muffle it or do it away from the phone to preserve some of Dave’s dignity. There is barely dignity for Dave to lose anymore anyway; it flew out the window the second he drunk texted a student. “Good boy, Dave,” Dirk murmurs.

Gathering the shreds of his pride around his shoulders like a pathetic cape, Dave is about to take verbal exception to that particular phrase—Dirk is much too young to get away with calling him that!—and then he remembers that Dirk doesn’t know who he is. Probably. Maybe. Also he sort of liked it? He’s not going to admit to _that_ , not even under an assumed name.

“Tell me where you are.” Preemptively elaborating, clearly expecting Dave to fuck this answer up. “Like are you sitting in a chair, or are you in bed? Are you standing in your bedroom like an asshole? It’s better for your mental images if I can ground myself in your space while I’m describing how I’m going to go to town on your dick.”

“On my bed,” Dave says tartly. He's too drunk not to let his irritation at this now pretty blatant condescension show through, but he would have anyway.

“Hmm,” Dirk hums dismissively, ignoring the irritation in Dave’s tone. “How’s your bed? Is it nice?” He’s clearly fucking around; Dave can hear the whispery sound of shuffling in his ear. “I don’t put out for less than 400 thread count Egyptian.” There’s a short metallic sound, quick and familiar, and in the next moment, Dirk makes this little satisfied noise that’s mostly breath. “Kidding. I give B.J.s in high school bathrooms, my standards are shit.”

Very carefully and very deliberately, Dave does not think about that sound, the one that sounded exactly like a zipper being pulled down. He definitely doesn’t think about that little sigh or whatever Dirk might be doing on the other end of the line. “Fuck me, you’re right,” he drawls. “Maybe I should have picked someone classier to call for—” He stops short, his mind stuttering on the end of that sentence. “—Talking,” he finishes lamely.

“Why didn’t you?” Dirk asks, obviously rhetorically, and his voice drips with smugness even before he continues. “I’ll save you the embarrassment of answering that. It’s because you couldn’t stop thinking about it, after you saw my number on the wall.” The words send a chill of panic down Dave’s spine, but Dirk is still drawing him in with his low voice, beguiling enough that it trumps the fear. “You wanted to know what it would feel like, what I feel like. What I would do to you.” Dave won’t admit to the truth of that, but a denial would ring humiliatingly false, so he stays silent. In the silence, Dave can hear Dirk’s slow, rhythmic exhales, each one sounding maybe just the slightest bit heavier than the last. “What do you want me to do to you, Dave?”

Dirk doesn’t seem to expect a response—more like he just wants to torture Dave with all of the ideas and images that set of words instantly inspires in his idiot brain. He lets Dave suffer in them and he’s fucking getting off to it, the prick. Seconds tick by before he starts talking again. “You seem unsure. Let’s start with the obvious scenario: you’d be in the bathroom, staring at my name on the wall, feeling conflicted. I’d walk in, see you staring, and lock the door behind me. Did you know the bathrooms at school have locks? It’s pretty fucking useful in this sort of situation. I’d slide up to you: imagine looking up at me and then suddenly looking down as I drop to my knees and start undoing your belt, your jeans. I’ve got this mostly stupid but kind of sexy trick of unzipping pants with my teeth; most bros love that slutty shit, they like me acting desperate, staring up at them with their dick in my mouth sort of thing—but you wanted classy.” 

“So. Your bed, Dave. Your room. I want to know, what would I see if I came over at 2:00 AM and you had a few too many? Would you just be stretched out and waiting for me, with your fly half undone?”

“Yeah,” Dave croaks. His gut churns with a sick mix of arousal and sincere, totally out of place concern about what Dirk has been up to. His vodka-soaked brain can't even begin to process the contradiction, so he just tries to shake it off.

“Not sure that’s particularly classy of you. Take off your pants and I’ll see how I feel about it.”

 _Pantslessness ain’t exactly headin’ in the direction of class_ , he might rebut, if he was feeling more himself. But he doesn’t, except vaguely in his head. Out loud he just says “Okay” and then pulls ineffectively at the waistband of his jeans with his free hand. After, oh, about forty-five seconds of this, he mumbles, “I gotta put the phone down for a sec,” and then proceeds to do so while he fumbles with his pants, barely managing not to fall off the bed in the process.

“Okay,” he finally says, picking his phone up again. “Pants’re gone.”

“Great. Good work.” Dirk has switched from his seductive voice back to his normal flat voice, even flatter as he continues. “I’m proud of you for not busting your ass in the process of completing that incredibly simple task.” 

“Thanks.”

“I’ll reward you by showing you how to not sound like an idiot while removing clothing.” There is only about ten seconds of faint rustling before Dirk returns. “Did you hear that? I’m completely divested of pants—bare-ass nude from the waist down, redundancy intentional to really drive the point home—and you didn’t even have to listen to me struggle. I’m not going to bother to tell you to take your shirt off. My dick can’t handle that kind of disappointment.”

Mouthy little brat. “I couldn’t see you, jackass. You just taught me what quiet rustling noises sound like.” Dave punctuates his wisecrack with a very drunken-sounding imitation of those noises. He spits on himself a little.

Far too perceptive as usual, Dirk immediately slings back, “Don’t waste your spit on bad impressions, Dave. I’d rather you put it to use, since I can’t be there to help. That’s the real reward, obviously, for getting off your pants. Having my mouth tracing up your thigh, just barely brushing over the bulge in your—” he pauses gracefully to let Dave fill the detail. 

“Underwear?”

“Dave.”

“What?”

“Jesus Christ.” Dirk snaps the question, “Boxers?” 

“Oh.” Now Dave feels stupid. “Briefs.”

“I’m going to give you the fucking meanest imaginary blowjob of your life. All you get is a little warm air on your goddamn briefs. Here’s my open, hot, wet mouth doing fuckall to your dick. I’m going to tease you until you beg.”

“Man, I don’t care,” Dave slurs. “I got my real hand on it.”

“Congrats, bro, you figured out how phone sex works. Now shut the fuck up.” Dirk makes a little throat clearing sound. “You will beg, Dave, because I know how these things go. You think you can resist, and maybe you do hold out for a while. Maybe you’re stubborn about it, or maybe you tell yourself you don’t want it. But you’re hard, and it’s only getting more distracting every time my lips just barely move against the fabric of your briefs—they are getting tighter, constricting, and each time my mouth gets close, you strain a little harder. Why not stop being an asshole and just ask for what you want from me? You can ask. You know I’m willing. I want this too, clearly, my mouth is watering and my cock—” he makes a more distinctive throat sound. “I want it.”

That voice—too deep for a seventeen-year-old, too rich—Dave feels like it’s weaving a spell around him. He’s muzzily convinced that even if Dirk’s words weren’t true, he could make them so just by speaking them. “Touch me,” he whispers.

Dirk’s careful breathing catches on an inhale and re-regulates itself in a split second, demonstrating some of the terrifyingly intense self-control Dave’s seen develop over the years. “Where, Dave?” Dirk murmurs after a moment’s pause.

“Anywhere,” Dave answers desperately.

“Everywhere,” Dirk accepts, taking the answer and running. “I’ll press you into your mattress with my hips and my palms on your stomach, slide up your shirt and feel you arch under me. You’re more desperate than I am, which is impressive.” There is exactly the right amount of detail (which, thanks to his rowdy libido, is basically any) to have Dave vividly picturing all of this, his own hand rucking up his shirt and trailing over his chest. 

“You want out of your clothes so you can feel my body against yours. I think I like them on though, just shoved aside enough for me to get at what I want. That’s how I would do it if we were at school.”

Dave makes an inarticulate noise. Images flood his brain unbidden—Dirk cornering him after class, shoving him into an isolated supply closet. Bruises sucked into his skin, left strategically where they won’t show when his clothes are put right again. A hand shoved down the front of his pants. Even with the softening effect of his drunkenness, his fantasies are threaded through with guilt, but instead of prompting him to stop it just puts a sharper edge on his arousal. Experimentally, he slides his hand into his briefs, gripping himself lightly, and immediately the guilt floods back in. He jerks his hand back out, but his aching cock needs relief too badly, and, flushed and shamefaced, he gives in. His sigh of relief is surely audible through the phone.

“Like that? Fast and dirty, high chance of getting caught—” Dirk definitely sounds like that might be something he enjoys, getting a little throatier and out-of-breath. “But it would be a shame to not take advantage of your bed, since I never get to suck dick in a bed.”

“Never?” It’s out of Dave’s lips before he can stop himself, but he does bite back the rest of his concerned interjection. It’s not like he thought Dirk was having a whole lot of meaningful, emotionally-driven sex, but jeez, he’s only seventeen and throwing himself away on guys who don't want much from him besides a hot mouth on their dicks. It makes Dave’s chest ache a little.

Dirk makes a sound like a laugh. “What do you think? All of my skill typically gets wasted on bathroom quickies with supposedly straight guys; I don’t get invited over a whole fucking lot. Let’s not make this sad, dude—I’m very into the image of you on a bed waiting for me to go down on you. You’ve given me the green light to take my damn time for once, really savor the cocksucking experience, maybe try out some things I’ve been saving...”

Dave’s lips form a disgruntled moue at Dirk’s glib dismissal of his concern, but he’s easily distracted by the rest of the things Dirk said. “Like what?” Saving for who?

“Like,” Dirk pauses, licking his lips in a way that is audible through the speaker. “Deepthroating.”

Well, that’s a little anticlimactic. “Wow, that’s something. Shit, I’m gonna nut right now just thinking about getting deepthroated by a guy who never did it before. Nothing says sexy like vomit all over your dick.”

“Fuck you,” retorts Dirk, a hint of breathlessness in his voice that could be laughter or...something else. “Just because I choose not to gag on randos doesn’t mean I haven’t practiced.”

Dave snorts. “I’m not sure that isn’t worse. What did you use, dude? A cucumber?”

“A huge dildo actually, thanks for the concern. Clearly I was prepping myself for talking to one.”

Dave laughs louder than he probably would if he was sober. “You were prepping yourself for _something_.”

“Or someone,” Dirk says casually, and Dave’s heart thumps against his ribcage. “Anyway, are we done with the shitty banter? I don’t know about you but my dick is still hard and I wouldn’t mind getting off sometime this century. You want me to describe how tenderly my lips are skating your cock, you’ve got to stop commentating. Agreed?”

“Okay,” Dave says meekly. Kind of pathetic, how easily cowed he is by an overly cocky seventeen-year-old. 

“Okay,” Dirk mimics imperiously. “Where was I? Telling you about how I’ll lift your ass up to get your briefs down your hips, watch your dick spring out, maybe rub my face against it a little. Give it a few strokes before tonguing your slit, taste how bad you want me to suck you off.”

He wants it pretty bad. His hand slipped off his dick while they were trading verbal barbs, but now it creeps back, this time easing his underwear down in imitation of the vivid picture Dirk is painting. This time, when his hand curls around his cock, he imagines it as Dirk’s, and the image pushes a soft whimper from his lips. 

“You want it, huh? Keep making those noises for me, Dave.”

Not for the first time tonight, Dave hears a peculiar note in Dirk’s voice when he says Dave’s name—a note he recognizes, though it's stronger now. It's specific, personal, caressing, and Dave is uneasily certain that Dirk knows exactly who he's talking to.

“I’ll swallow you down—you can talk shit all you want about my deepthroating abilities, but I don’t fucking think you’re going to be saying anything coherent with your cock down my throat. I’ll keep your hips pinned to the bed and fuck you with my mouth. I will make you come for me, but only when I say you can.” The way Dirk is speaking is rhythmic, like he’s verbally setting the pace for Dave’s hand.

“Yes, sir,” Dave breathes. The subservient phrase falls out of his mouth like it’s the most natural thing in the world, never mind that ten minutes ago he was getting riled about Dirk calling him good boy.

“Fuck—” The sound that Dirk makes lands somewhere between gasping and moaning. It’s the first obvious noise of pleasure that Dave has heard from him, and it’s nothing but a brief moment of vulnerability before Dirk takes the reins again. “That’s so pretty, Dave. I want to hear you beg me in that voice to let you get off in my mouth. Normally I would swallow, watch your face as you spill down my throat, but I’m not feeling it tonight; seems sort of unfair since I’m not there to taste it for real. I want to watch you make a fucking mess of yourself, hold your cock against your stomach as you come. I want to see the expression you make.”

Dave is getting close now, panting audibly, his hand moving frantically on his cock.

“And then, Dave,” Jesus fuck there’s more? Dirk’s voice is almost hoarse and his breathing is decidedly ragged now. “I will flip you over and fuck you hard. I’ll smear your jizz all over your nice, clean bed and ruin it. You’re going to think about me every time you go to sleep.” 

Humiliatingly, it’s the image of a permanent reminder of Dirk in his most intimate space that pushes Dave over the edge. He comes hard, trying and failing to muffle his almost anguished cry, and Dirk is talking again; it’s barely audible over the roaring in his ears, but he can still hear that special note in it. “It’s okay, Dave, no one else has to know.” 

In the next moment, there’s a choking noise that sounds muffled, far away from the receiver, and then just the static silence of the phone and the faint, irregular crackle of someone breathing.

Dave leans against the headboard, breathing hard. His stomach is wet with his own come. Some of it got on his shirt, too. Maybe he’ll just throw it away, he thinks distantly. Not like he needs the reminder of what a piece of shit he is.

Dirk clears his throat, “That was… good.” There is a slightly awkward pause like Dirk isn’t quite sure where to go from here, with both of them coming down from an orgasm. “You should probably sleep off some of that booze now. I’ll see you around—or in the fall.” He pauses again, and then, as earnest as Dave has ever heard him: “Have a good summer, Dave.”

The line clicks and Dave is left staring at his phone screen. 

**Author's Note:**

> also special shoutout to nw for providing 'emptying the radiator' when i asked for a gross dave analogy for piss what up


End file.
